Page 58 of Healing Eleanor

There’s something so refreshingly genuine about Lily, it almost makes me forget about girls like Sofia. Plus, the help won’t hurt. “Sure. That’d actually be great.”

“Yay!” she claps and slides her phone into my hands. “Put your number in and text me your address.”

Nik’s voice cuts through the dressing room door as I type. “Lily, can you lock up?” He jingles the studio keys. “I’m heading to the doctor’s appointment. I’ll see you after?”

“Yes!” she exclaims, already on her feet as she cracks the door open to snag the keys. “Just text me your lunch order.”

“You’re the best,” he replies, his footsteps already echoing down the hallway.

“Here you go,” I say, handing Lily her phone.

“Thanks,” she responds and slips it into her dance bag.

We stand at the same time and head for the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lily,” I say, offering a small wave.

She waves back. “See you,” she says, turning toward Studio B to lock up.

After a grueling hour of waiting for a taxi, I finally make it home. The moment my head hits a pillow, I know I’ll be out cold. But instead of going straight to bed, I drift into the kitchen.

I look around and a familiar wave of anger rises in my chest. I feel like I failed today. Despite Lily’s kind words, I’m still stuck on the fact that I’d been called out more than anyone else today.

And when failure is present, there’s no room for rewards.

Without bothering to open a cabinet or pour a glass of water, I turn and walk out of the kitchen. I strip off the remnants of the day and collapse face-first into bed.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But if I can’t be perfect today, I’ll be perfect tomorrow.

Even if it costs me.

12

Bracing for Failure

Eleanor

The week passes in a shroud of aching muscles and silent humiliation. Ironically, everything I do is either too perfect or too rehearsed. Personally, I think my movements are exceptional. Flawless even. Not to brag, but my mother would’ve wept with pride. I pour blood, sweat, and tears into perfecting my technique. I move with purpose and poise, exactly how a ballerina should. Or so I thought.

For some reason I can’t name, it feels like Nik makes it his personal mission to break me. He corrects me again and again and again. It’s always public and with immense precision. No one else gets this kind of treatment. Not even Paloma and Emi, the two new girls fresh out of nowhere, who should be the ones getting grilled. It’s their first time in a real company after all.

So why me? Why am I, a former Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet dancer, being picked apart like I don’t even know how to point my own toes?

It makes a very small, but prominent, part of me want to march right up to him and ask if he has a problem with me. Maybe even scream it. If it wasn’t for Lily, or even Dillon and Gabriel keeping me afloat, I might’ve already lost it. As it stands, my confidence is buried somewhere six feet underground, and I’m not sure I have the strength to dig it back up.

Thankfully, Lily has been there for me this week way more than I ever expected, and more than I ever thought I’d need. Because of her, I don’t spiral into obsessing over the problem that is Nik. And honestly, I can’t believe I’m even saying that. This week, Lily has treated me better than my own brother and sister.

She helped me unpack every single box, hung photos with me like it actually mattered to her, and the part that still gets me is that she brought me a plant. Lilies, to be specific. One she said she grew herself. She’s selfless, caring, effortlessly funny, and just easy to be around. Maybe if I spend enough time with her, some of that sunshine will rub off on me.

But who am I kidding? I’m not made for sunshine and rainbows. I’m a product. A blueprint crafted to fulfill my mother’s dream. And if I’m being honest, I don’t even know if that dream is mine anymore.

It’s Friday morning, and I’m already dreading stepping into Studio B. I just know Nik is in there plotting new ways to criticize me.

But when I walk in, it’s empty. Just like it’s been all week. The taxi service has been wildly unpredictable, and I’d rather be painfully early than suffer another one of Nik’s verbal lashings. Still, I don’t really mind the solitude. The studio is peaceful in its stillness. Golden light spills across the floor like a lake, the wood creaks gently beneath my feet, and I can twirl in lazy circles if I feel like it. For a moment, it’s just me and the quiet.

Slipping off my ballet shoes and leg warmers, I set them neatly beside the freestanding barres and step onto the studio floor barefoot. I begin to twirl slowly, eyes closed, letting movement take over. I don’t care if my épaulement is lazy or if my wrist isn’t held at the perfect angle. None of it matters.

Right now, all I care about is freedom, something I rarely experience. Not real freedom, at least. I don’t even know if this counts. But whatever it is, it feels good. Like something I can almost believe belongs to me. The room can be burning down, and I still won’t stop.